Getting in training mode for upcoming trail races, I realised I needed new shoes. I got my (all very legitimate) excuses lined up: my current pairs were either comfy but not responsive enough, or perfect in snow and wet conditions but not ideal on harder terrain. Or too wide. Or giving me blisters. Or the wrong colour.
Whatever. I just needed new ones.
And so I went hunting, and found... the PERFECT shoes.
They are called MOUNTAIN MASOCHIST.
Now, Martin is, not very fairly it lust be said, claiming that I bought them because I just love that name. OK, fine: I just love that name.
A couple of days ago, my little, size 3, masochists, arrive, and I immediately start feeling some itching in my feet: it is time to prove that I deserve them. That it is not just a I-baught-these-shoes-because-I-like-that-stupid-name purchase, but that I am a true mountain lover. Or a true mountain masochist. Same thing.
So here am I, planning where to go and treat them promptly to their first serious run. Which obviously needs to be on a mountain. And ideally a rather steep one. Add rain and a lot of slippery mud for good measure. On my lunch break, meaning I get neither lunch nor a break. And, in case this does not make for a true masochist experience, I add a cold, runny nose and a sore throat for good measure
So here am I, planning where to go and treat them promptly to their first serious run. Which obviously needs to be on a mountain. And ideally a rather steep one. Add rain and a lot of slippery mud for good measure. On my lunch break, meaning I get neither lunch nor a break. And, in case this does not make for a true masochist experience, I add a cold, runny nose and a sore throat for good measure
Man, what a great run!
The run starts next to a cemetery, and less than 30 seconds later, I catch myself thinking it may actually turn out to be pretty convenient, because I am positively dying. Then for the first mile, the slope averages 16%: who needs a warm up when you can feel like puking instead? After a few hundreds metres, I just cannot breath anymore, and start questionning whether I am right claiming that a good run is the best cure against a cold. 5kms and 500m elevation gain later, alternatively plodding through deep snow and mud, and I am not questioning that claim anymore: by now it is all too clear this was a very stupid thing to say indeed.
Top reached. That felt hard. That felt good.
The Mountain Masochist and I have handled our first mountain run together rather well. And since they deserve it, I'll probably treat them to another outing rather soon. The only thing I felt very let down by, is their colour. I mean, BABY BLUE? What kind of colour is that for a masochist?
